July 21, 2009

A Brief Note of Friendly Concern: Dear Bono

Listen, whatya say we throw on our caftans, make a bee-line for the beach-side tiki bar and order a mai-tai or seven in a dirty coconut? Sounds hilarious, doesn't it? We KNOW!

So here's the shizzle-dizzle. We were in high school when "Boy" was released. It fit our surly 16-year-old, angst-ridden aesthetics to a tee. We saw U2 play Red Rocks, one of the best concerts ever. When you warned us that should we decide to "walk-away-walk-away," you'd most likely "follow," we were okay with it. And although there's something faintly insufferable about anyone who'd rename themselves "good voice" in Latin, we nevertheless tolerate your pretentious op-eds in the NY Times in which you remind us you're a soulful genius who cares about Africa and stuff.

But Bono. Bono-Bono-Bono. Were we to take a beach stroll and encounter a sperm whale fondling itself, we'd "run-away-run-away," and if it were to "follow" we'd call security and have you tazed.

Sadly, after lo these many years, you Still Haven't Found What You're Looking For; because unless what you're looking for is ball sweat, crab lice or jock itch, you're unlikely to find it down the front of your Target Big-n-Tall board trunks.

The thing is, anyone with a penis knows that several times daily it becomes necessary to do a little nad-juggling. Things get twisted, itchy, mushed, discombobulated and outa-whack; and sometimes the only remedy is a full frontal crotchular expedition. But one does not go testicle wrangling on a public beach in full view of the paps. Jesus, Mary and Jehoshaphat! Have we learned nothing from Simon Le Bon?

In the name of love, Mr. Vox, un-hand mini-Bono this instant. Drop the chalupa. Do it now so we can discuss that overly-yeasted loaf of back-fat rising from your shorts and making a break for the border. Do you you hate our ability to see?

You look like (pick one):

Gene Hackman IS James Lipton in an ill-fated bio-pic called "Inside the Actor's Underoos"

You've embarked upon an eeling expedition in lake paunch-ertrain

You're scraping barnacles from the hull of the USS Augustus Gloop

Moby Dick, preparing to brandish his pants-harpoon

Your shorts have been inexplicably annexed by Pillsbury to manufacture pop-n-fresh biscuit dough

Comments

Shortly after this photo was taken, a boatload of Greenpeace do-gooders came ashore and met a group of enthusiastic PETA representatives and started splashing water on Mr. Bono while rolling him towards the surf. Unfortunately for Mr. Bono, his bright yellow Lance Armstrong rubber band bracelet had gotten caught on his PA and his hands were left immobilized, thus causing him to flop around on the beach and reinforcing the perception that he was the beached apple of Capt. Ahab's eye.